A Long Way To Home
by PeaceLoveAndCheese
Summary: Human emotions are tiring, troublesome things. And Sherlock wants to be known as anything but that. No matter how hard you try though, you're only human. And it's been a long year. WARNING: Great Gobs of Angst. Not slash, but could be turned into Johnlock, if you're wearing those types of glasses. One-shot, but there may be a sequel if you ask nicely.


**WARNING: I am not British. This has not been Brit-picked. And while I'm very good at _sounding _British apparently, as I've been told, I will apologize now for any mistakes or errors that were written. If you are from the great land of Britain, feel free to point out any errors you see. **

**This started out as a Doctor Who OTP Boot Camp Challenge Prompt, but seeing as I was texting my friend while starting this, it just escalated into Sherlock. The things he does to me. **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own. I wish I did. My birthday is in a month... maybe if I get ahold of Moffat and Gatiss in time...?**

* * *

_Homesick: adjective. Experiencing a longing for one's home during a period of absence from it. _

* * *

Emotions were messy, complicated things that often screwed with your head and left you feeling like your world had been turned on it's end and flung around until everything was out of order and the only way up was down... or was it the other way around? It was best to not get caught up in your emotions, to keep them shoved deep down inside you and have them fight you to get out, because at least then you were in control.

But a war isn't fought because something is right.

Emotions can be kept in check, kept in balance with your mind, sitting on the other end of the scale and pushing down just hard enough so that the balance doesn't tip and the weight doesn't fall and it all doesn't come crashing down like the waves on the beach, which visualizes it as a much calmer, much gentler thing than it actually is.

Humans often, too often, let their emotions run their lives. They let their emotions come out whenever the chemicals in their brains got too out of control. Humans didn't have the finely tuned art of precision, or they were all just to idiotic to learn to control themselves. Humans weren't perfect.

And Sherlock Holmes tried as hard as he could not to appear human.

* * *

It had been a long year.

Sherlock stepped off of his train, the familiar smell of train exhaust and crisps and London filling his nose. Tourists and locals alike rushed past, a blur of colors and sound, loud, excited, overwhelming. His coat flapped around his legs as a faint rush of wind blew through the station.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, lost in his emotions and senses and mind. He probably would've stood there forever, if it weren't for the two people who slammed into him in their hurry. He shook himself out of his reverie, strode out of the station and hailed a taxi. He didn't have any luggage. Having an extremely powerful and rich brother did have it's advantage.

As the London cab swerved down the streets, Sherlock found himself simply gazing out the window, looking at the sights he had memorized and had forgotten about all in one instant.

The time he had been away had seemed much longer than it actually had been. He'd been on the move, outrunning the remnants of Moriarty's men and tracking them down, especially the snipers who had been sent to kill... Sherlock still couldn't say friends, no matter how true that word was in describing the people who he was close to. If he said it, it would make it real and then it would really have been his fault that he had tricked them and left them for a year and it would be his fault if they died because he had been stupid enough to _care_.

The cabbie was blathering on about nothing, his words dull and unregistered in Sherlock's ears. The lights were too bright, the sounds were too loud, and Sherlock was feeling completely and totally out of his depth and he wanted to just be at home again and lying on his sofa with his neon smiley face and holes in the wall and Lestrade down at the station and Mrs. Hudson downstairs and John in the next room, or in the next chair, or on the sofa with him, or coming in the door, or scolding him or laughing at him or shaking his head at him for not having common sense or for leaving body parts in the refrigerator. John making tea, John typing his blog, John smiling, John laughing, John, John, _John_.

"You okay mate?" the cabbie asked, his arm over the seat and glancing in the rearview mirror.

"What?"

"This is your stop, right?" The cabbie held out his hand for a fare. "221 Baker Street."

"Oh." Sherlock placed a slightly shaking hand on the door handle, placing a few bills into the cabbie's hand. He tipped his hat to Sherlock as he got out of his cab and drove away.

Sherlock counted the steps up to the door. He stood in on the threshold, barely daring to place a hand on the door. He could tell by the lighting in the house that Mrs. Hudson, for some odd reason, was out, but he could see the faint twinkling of the lights upstairs, which meant John was only a few minutes away from Sherlock's eyes.

A light rain was starting to fall, which felt appropriate to Sherlock. Drizzling downwards, wetting his face and hair, but not soaking through his coat. Sherlock stood on the stoop for another moment... two... He would count to three... one... _John_... two... _John_... three.

Sherlock rang the doorbell.

For a frightening minute, it seemed like no one was home after all and Sherlock almost backed away, turned to leave.

And then there were footsteps on the landing.

"I'm coming! Lestrade, if that's you again, I'm fine!" Sherlock could hear him coming closer, could map out each step, almost to the door, turning the handle... "There's really no need to come and check up on me everyday to make sure I'm not turning into-"

The door swung open.

John's mouth was still moving, with no words, like he had forgotten how to produce them. To Sherlock, he looked wonderful, all short and covered in woolen jumper, his mouth hanging open. His eyes had dark circles underneath them and he had lost weight, leaning heavily towards being underfed. Sherlock didn't usually demean his mind to such matters, but he knew that he could never look as perfect as John did right now.

And for once, Sherlock Holmes had thought wrong, because to John Watson, who saw Sherlock standing on his front stoop, looking rather small and sad and scared inside that great ridiculous coat of his, he looked just as wonderful.

"Oh." John found his voice, but it had been diminished to a whisper, a mere percent of it's normal volume.

"Oh," Sherlock agreed. John said nothing. He looked down at his feet. "I'll not blame you if you're mad at me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. I'll just go now." He began to turn, to walk out into the rain, when a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Oh," John said. "Oh God. Oh God, _Sherlock_." And Sherlock found himself wrapped in John's arms, as the man himself muttered things that were incomprehensible to Sherlock. The shock of it almost bowled Sherlock over, but he found himself instead returning the hug, holding John so tight he was afraid he'd hurt him and he didn't want to hurt John ever again.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do anything like that again, you great bloody-" John gasped, his face muffled in the cloth of Sherlock's coat. "Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea, how much I've missed you, how much it-"

"Hurt." Sherlock finished the sentence for him, surprised to find himself trembling in John's steady grasp. "I know. I felt it too."

John finally released him, too soon. "Well, come on then. We can't have you catching your death out here in the rain. I've made up some dinner, it's still hot. There's enough for two."

Sherlock looked more surprised than he already was. "But... you didn't know I was coming."

John grinned at him. "Yes I did." He turned to go into the house. "I always knew."

And for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was struck entirely speechless.

John trotted up the stairs, turning back to glance at Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway. "It's been here all this time, Sherlock. It's always been home." And John Watson, his wonderful, bloody miracle, disappeared up the stairs, knowing Sherlock would follow him like John had followed Sherlock.

Sherlock stepped inside the flat entrance, wondering just what John had cooked and what was going to be on telly that night and how long it would've taken for John to have given up and how in the world was he going to tell John about everything that had happened in the past year. But, he decided, he would have plenty of time for that, plenty of time for emotions, plenty of time for domestics, plenty of time for everything, because he was back. He was _home_.

How incredibly human.


End file.
